


Witch

by furiedheart



Category: Chris Hemsworth - Fandom, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom, hiddlesworth - Fandom
Genre: Affection, Anal Sex, Anger, Broken Bones, Cousins, Incest, Isolation, M/M, Magical Revenge, Mysticism, Southern AU, Spooky, internal bleeding, magical healing, painters, physical beating, plantation house, psychic connection, swamp forest, townspeople prejudice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-12 23:57:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7954072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/furiedheart/pseuds/furiedheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris and Tom are reclusive painters. They've lived alone in their ancestral home since the deaths of their mothers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Witch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Golikethat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Golikethat/gifts).



> I wrote this in about five days. There's a bit of a dry spell going on with my other two major works, and this one happened quickly and easily, so I let it be. The idea came to me after listening to some very soulful music by Jewel. 
> 
> Thank you to duskyhuedladysatan for editing and moral support, and golikethatcat for the many encouraging words. 
> 
> In the winter they were weavers of warmth, in the summer they were carpenters of love. They thought blue prints were too sad so they made them yellow. Because they were painters and they were painting themselves a lovely world. ~'Painters' by Jewel
> 
> All of the heat, the peace, the pain, and all those blue skies where your words were my freedom…too many times, I’ve cared too much. I stood on the edge and saw that you held my hand, knowing too well, I couldn’t hide from those eyes. ~'Don’t' by Jewel
> 
> The heavens all shook violently. He caught my eye. Strange fruit fell; it struck me to the core. My heart became a single flame, it wanted nothing more…My heart has four empty rooms. Three wait for lightning, one waits for you. I must have you all to myself, feel the full weight of your skin. I’ll hollow out my insides to place you in. 'Enter from the East' by Jewel

The Victorian was old, a grand plantation house with a skirted porch that sagged and buckled under dripping azalea and blankets of moss. To walk over the creaking floorboards was to glimpse snatches of land bathed in sunlight, the glittering specks of lake water through the heavy hang of green foliage, the rasp of pale bare feet on worn wood like the whispers they regularly heard when the night was blackest. They would often find themselves wandering the house and land in the late hours, collecting what they needed for their pigments, cloth sacks full of bushels of brush and clusters of fat berries and pastel flower petals from which they would wring their painting colors. Summer was the best time for sunflowers and the orange silk roses that grew in wild clusters to the east, the coveted relics for the reds and deep burgundy needed most to convey such an anger as that which belonged to the Delphic eyed one.

 

Tom, of the gentle lily skin mapped with veins and love bruises, had a deeper core of brazen heat in him, the fury that lived there quicker to rise but so rarely so. His was a rage that was steeped in years of pointed hate, a measure of refusing to forget that which had been done to them. Only the cocooning calm at the hands of Chris assuaged it, his inherent love, with his eyes of ice and smile of slow fire, a willow of strong sway. His was a heart of ocean blue, an easy breathing, a soft gathering of crow’s feet. Chris, his willow, saw to it that he was never provoked, and Tom, the wisp, ventured near the borders of their land only when he must. For there awaited the resentment, but he wouldn’t think on it now.

 

The moon shone their prizes best, the sun their heavy gazes. Walks in the woods meant holding hands and smiles laced with the chill of dawn, teeth white and promising. Among the trees, their words were rare, rarer than in the rooms and hallways of their old home. All that was heard were their soft steps in the mulch of leaves and black soil, the branches leaning with thick canopies, the steam rising off the swamps not far off, the birds gone to sleep. Burdened with their supplies and loopy grins, they returned to the shade of the towering house and climbed the chipped steps into the nest of wild green. Inside, their smooth wooden bowls waited, hollow bellies caked with layers of paint to be made wet again.

 

Most days, as swamp bugs flitted and feathers brushed over lake water, an old transistor radio crackled somewhere with the soft melody of a dusky-voiced singer, the songs wafting through the cavernous kitchen and echoing foyer, up the sweeping staircase, growing softer and less clear in the upper floor where the rooms sat quiet and full of canvas and wood. They would find each other with humming and thrumming of finger-trails on the wall, extra sensory, a homing. A determined nose pushing into the soft curls of gold, a mouth closing over the pulse of vein. The sudden crack of a brush clattering to the floor, paint pinwheeling and splattering on soft leg hair, and then the muffled scolding for the waste of it, a dark, deep chuckle in answer. Against the far wall, a twining shadow flickered from the light of the lantern on a pale blue stool.

 

They painted separately, each claiming a wing of the house for themselves, their canvases streaked with the bursts of their emotions, calm or enraged, they would dissolve them from brush to canvas and never expose them to each other. The rasp of wet bristles, the drip of color, the humid stick of cotton shirts to sweating chests, so hot, so hot, tear it off to stand in the center of the room and heave the image into being. Near the encroaching dust of sunset, with the echoes of a song still itching in their heads, they shuffled to their bedroom, wrists aching, elbows bumping in the doorway so that Chris would clasp Tom by his small waist and ease him to the porcelain tub. Water gush, a spill of garments to the floor, the dip of tender soles into the pool. Rounded toes, curved arch, the delicate jut of ankle bones. Sinking, sinking, a groan that rose and uncoiled, an easing of spine to flat belly. Relax, my wisp. Relax now. Let it go from you. I will carry it now.

 

Humid skin shed of sweat, picked clean of paint flecks, a hot mouth running from a long clavicle to the eggshell white of an ear. A smiling wisp, exhausted and enchanted, and divorced from his anger for now. Together, they dozed and let the water baptize their isolation, a gifting, a birth. In bed later, the windows thrown wide, breezes ghosting on their drying limbs, heavy and lithe, they kissed and moaned into deeper slumber, pressing in rhythm, to yearn, to beg, a soft cry and release.

 

Bliss. And the throaty hoot of yellow-eyed owls.

 

The morning found them collecting eggs from the hen house and plucking enormous tomatoes from the vines that, come winter, would be straggling and cracked with strain. Once winter was set in the ground deep, their burgeoning garden wouldn’t again yield until spring, and Chris would need to make more frequent trips to town, something Tom loathed and dreaded, the heresy of it. But that was still ahead. For now, with slim fingers and graceful twists of his palms, he collected enough peach juice for their breakfast, Chris coaxing their eggs in the pan, his hands wider and rougher, more accustomed to the burn. From the length of the receiving room, dusty portraits of long-deceased relatives watched them and did not judge, for the historical ancestral home was serving its purpose, its isolation the proper intent, a retreat for the remaining family, these two lovely men who painted and sighed against each other at night. Interspersed among the familial esteem were their own creations, landscapes of glaring sunsets and dark haunted forests, bison and eagles with glowing blue eyes. The land seeming to rise from out of the edge of the gleaming frames to scratch gently at their whirring minds, reminders of their burning hearts, so alone.

 

In places of honor above the fireplace were oil portraits of their mothers, sisters of rich aristocratic beauty, blue-eyed and golden-haired, in gowns of pale pink and robin’s egg. They sat demurely, hands folded elegantly on their laps, but their eyes gleamed with hidden mischief, both in the beginning sparks of conception, Tom and Chris nestled in their bellies, to be birthed within hours of each other, kept in the same white-laced bassinet, tiny hands clasped since the very start of it all. Chris would find Tom in the front room sometimes late at night, in a long nightshirt that barely reached his knees, the dying embers of the fire revealing the slender shape beneath. Staring up at their mothers, the simmering flames washing them aglow, their fingers brushed and then twisted together, a memory reflex since their birth. He missed them, the sisters. Chris did too, but Tom felt things so much deeper in his blood, in his very bones. And whenever Chris felt that feather breath on his neck, on his knees in the garden, shin-deep in the lake, or whispering to the trees, he would turn and squint, that tugging starting around his ribcage. It would lead him to where Tom was, all clenched fists and frustrated tears, and he would send the ghosts fleeing. Just in time to catch Tom before he toppled over, sagging, trembling, mumbling his name. Pale long limbs, cradle him so tender. His fits happened more frequently as children, petering out as they matured and started tracing each other’s bodies with tip-toeing fingers and gusts of sweet breaths. Now, they were rare but just as strong - usually a response to something he disliked - and Chris felt them in his own way, hurrying to him, his wisp.

 

But their summer broke open with placidity, and they embraced the earth and the colors with relish and relief.

 

Their meals were soft clinks of cutlery, sketch pad and charcoal angled to the side, the silky bone of ankles brushing. A big hand closed over a slimmer one, and they fed each other figs and wrinkled dates, their favorite sweets. Across the water the swans floated, beaks tucked under wings snow white, hovering mist obscuring them just enough that they appeared specters with badges of orange. The gators kept to the swamps further south, reptilian eyes glowing in the gloom, clumps of driftwood and splash of moss.

 

Even through the anger simmering just beneath the cage of his ribs, Tom scratched at the paper, outlining the elegant ridge of his willow’s nose, the wheat-thick of his falling hair, already imagining the whites and blues and soft pinks he would use to fill in the spirit he recognized in such a heart, no matter the reds and blacks he tended to favor. Not for Chris. Such despair would never find a home in him.

 

“Must you go,” he murmured, squeezing the stick of charcoal so hard the sugar pot shook. Placing a hand on the trembling lid, Chris brushed a curl behind Tom’s ear, witnessing the immediate drain of rage, Tom’s skin losing its flush, lips parting, blond lashes sinking low.

 

“For only an hour or two. We need supplies. I’ll bring you a gift.”

 

Tom’s lips pressed in a firm line, not baited. “They will hurt you.”

 

“They won’t,” he said, just as softly. Their voices were never harsh, if a little rough from disuse. “I see them now. I’ll always see them now. You have shown them to me.” 

 

Blond brows folded, the color rising again. “They showed themselves.”

 

“Look at me.”

 

He refused, gripping the charcoal and scratching out a black background, his presence in the image to the light that was his willow.

 

“Wisp.”

 

He finally looked up, tears gathering under his lashes. Chris’s hand on his elbow seemed the only thing steadying him. He might burst into the sky and never return.

 

“They won’t hurt me. I won’t let them. Not this time. Last time was singular. Years ago. An aberration. And now they also know you. They haven’t come near since."

 

It was true. There had been a few attempted thefts throughout the years, rumors of the family treasure buried under the hazardous porch. Sneered words of hate thrown at them for their isolation, their glorious land, their irregularities and their oddities. _Cousins._

But Tom trusted none of this. His heart and his mind were unforgiving things.

 

“I won’t be able to save you again,” he bit out, his nose wrinkling with the force of his emotion. “I mean, I could. And I will. But it might kill me and all the rest of them. It might crack the earth in two."

 

Chris smiled, their bodies ever so slowly drifting closer, sketch forgotten, knees bumping, a hitch of breath and then a broken whisper, “Willow.”

 

They grabbed at each other, mouths fusing in age-old memory, charcoal streaks on pulsing neck under the limp flap of a collar, a hard tumble to the floor, chair upended, peach juice spilled on mahogany. It was rougher than usual, Chris’s strength made manifest as waves on a sea. Gripping bird-wrists, kneeing willing thighs apart, the scuff of calloused palms up the silkened ribs to rasp at a rose bud nipple. Tom’s noises, those small sounds, since they were babies Chris had learned to distinguish what every single one meant. The hunger and boredom of toddlers, the happiness and pain of adolescence, enchanted screams in the woods, skinned knees. The tormented sobs of his fits, echoing in his own brain. Later, the desirous moans of pleasure pulses, the whimpers, the gasps. His name, again and again.

 

Tom wanted and needed and craved. It was Chris who sated him, who calmed and lulled him, who ate desperately at the palms of such lovely hands the nourishment of life and love and the company of another’s soul.

 

“Take me,” he groaned, panting, the hoarse drag of air.

 

Tearing of clothes, the rip at the seams, quiet mending Tom would do later as he waited and stared down the drive, the silk thread slipping through the material. He might prick his finger, he might stare at the bubble of blood, he might lick at it and think of him, the thrum of his power reaching Chris the many miles away he would be, where the tugging on his spine would start.

 

“Impatient lily. I will have you now.”

 

Two spots of color framed Tom’s cheeks, his lashes curled and damp, blackened fingers clawing at his naked back. He was a wild thing, bred on this land, veins swimming with the soil and vine of the swamps and the cicada-drenched trees. Sweat gathered in the hollow of his throat and Chris’s tongue swiped through it, finding a well-worn bruise and sucking it fresh. There was the tremor he so adored, the rattle of breath, backbone arching as Tom worked to absorb Chris into his very muscles. Cotton trousers shoved down, a tangle of legs and cloth, legs spread like the wide wings of the giant butterflies that haunted their swamp. Press of fingers, a hand fisting in his hair, a hiss, flesh giving way, flexed toes vibrating on the gleaming floor.

 

He rutted into him, moist skin slapping, sharing loving, sweet kisses as Tom’s back skidded along the floor.

 

“I’ll come back to you,” Chris grunted, biting Tom’s swollen bottom lip. Heel digging into the hard muscle of Chris’s thigh, Tom bit him in return, and growled, warning enough.

 

Nails dug deep as he came, a small wince and then the rush of blinding white that always spared him just the tiniest bit the waiting door of death. Lulling rock of eager hips, bared teeth in a snarl at his neck, and then the gushing spurts of his love, sated laze of his smile as he watched the ceiling fan whir and whir.

 

After, lying so still on the floor, he watched as Chris readied himself to leave. Buckling himself properly, smoothing back his hair, licking fresh tooth marks and winking at him wicked. Tom smiled, a small chuckle, and sent a part of his spirit with Chris for protection. Wherever he went, others would sense him, unearthly, and cower, leaving Chris unharmed. Because the way Chris protected him was different from how Tom protected him, and by extension their land. Chris was the physical strength, the bulk and the brunt of it, the most recognizable. Tom was the ethereal flicker, the apparition at midnight, the glowing eyes low in the brush, in the dark. It wasn’t like how he had to be rid of those snickering, shushing high school students who considered the big haunted house outside of town to be a measure of their own false bravery and cunning. There were frequent nights when he would sense their giggly approach, clutching elbows and tripping over themselves in excited fear and whispered shouts of taunting. Slipping out from beneath Chris and the cooling sheets, he would take the stairs in near silence, his cotton trousers and open shirt whispering against his bare ankles, flapping like bird wings along his torso. The back door creaked open and he peered out at the mist-blanketed land, the far swamp forest black as pitch, crickets singing quietly.

 

But everything grew quiet at his exit, his form splitting the mist that swirled back into place behind him. The kids always approached from the main road, too afraid to traverse the swamps at night, or swim through the lake that fronted their property. Chris never failed to latch the gate before dark, but they were stubborn and climbed over the top, or squeezed under the bottom, so loud in all their effort to remain quiet. Watching them from a distance, Tom would circle to the far left, just at the edge of the swamp forest, keeping to their blind spot. The towering trees and the tall brick pillars that made up the border of their land kept him in shadow. They liked to come at the full moon, when everything was most lit and they weren’t as cowed.

 

And just as they’d all – usually three or four, in the great belief of strength in numbers – scramble over and stare open-mouthed at the house where Chris slept and they kept their peaceful days, Tom would slide from the shadow of the wall and into the porous light of the moon, a pillar of bone-white, curls cast in silver with eyes sparking with something they had never encountered before, something ancient.

 

The first scream was usually the most bloodcurdling, no doubt waking Chris inside their bedroom. The others were shorter and hoarse with panic, feet scuffing up dirt as they jostled over one another in their haste to put the gate between themselves and the spirit they thought Tom to be. There were many on the property, but he was something not quite.

 

It was inevitable that these visits would happen. Every group of children that matriculated every five years saw a few among them that would dare the others to break into the old Herald Lake plantation, that the only members left of the once great family were two reclusive cousins whose mothers had died of a bout of cholera that has affected a small portion of the town. Sequestered in the attic, the boy cousins were forbidden from emerging. Weeping in each other's arms, they heard their mothers' moans for hours before things went very quiet. From far below came the creaky thud of the front door, and then nothing. It wasn’t until after dark that they crept out of the attic, hands clasped, to find the house empty, a piece of a pale pink scarf snagged on the thorn of a hawthorn tree leading into the swamps.

They’d been alone since then, but for each other, and their colors and the eyes that moved in their frames as they passed.

 

The memories vanished with a blink, and now Chris was leaving again, to protect them in ways only he could.

 

Gathering an empty satchel and the keys from a hook, he glanced once more at him, ravished and limp on the floorboards, and grinned.

 

“Get the money from the cellar.”

 

Chris only winked, as if he didn’t know.

 

“I’ll be back before dark.”

 

He left, walking around the house and rooting in the cellar where they kept their family’s wealth, inherited. The rumble of the truck outside roused Tom from his stupor, and fresh tears swarmed his vision. Brushing at them quickly, he pushed to his elbows, his lower muscles protesting. Already he could feel his anger rising, Chris’s absence a dam broken to let through the swell so often kept at bay.

 

He hated when Chris left for town. He understood why he had to, supplies and food they couldn’t grow on their land, and much needed materials for their art, even clothes at times, but after what happened before he simply couldn’t stomach the thought, dreading the moment. What some of the people did – men, jeering men and their scornful sense of righteousness – he would never forgive them the pain they caused his willow.

 

Never would he forget the day a strange truck careened through the rusted front gate and blew down the long drive, billows of dirt pluming behind the racing vehicle. A middle-aged man with a yellow-checkered shirt and a stained white apron stumbled from behind the wheel, eyes wide at the front door, not having seen Tom standing beside the far column in the safety of the moss. Wringing his apron for a moment, he shuffled from foot to foot, clearly unsure what to do. Finally deciding, he took one hesitant step toward the porch, but it was then that Tom shifted on silent feet into view.

 

Gasping, the man stumbled back from shock, colliding with the front of his truck, mouth opening and closing like a dumb cow. He stared at Tom like he was some sort of terrifying vision, a being from another realm. Tom could only imagine how he might appear to the stranger, unearthly and strange, eyes unblinking, his hair a knotted mess of curls and berry thorns, feet bare, twig bracelets loose on both wrists. The bruise at his neck twanged.

 

"Who are you," he whispered, and the man snapped to life.

 

“I—I tried to stop them. He’s just a kid! The deputy and his men were on a call. I’m sorry.” He hurried around to the back of his truck and unlatched the tailgate, but Tom already knew what would be there. He’d felt it as a cord pulled painfully tight in his chest, the sight of blond hair streaked with crimson, the swollen eyes, the split lip, the stained blue shirt he loved the most, the bruises already rising on his summer skin. Tom’s heart jammed into his throat and he struggled to swallow as the man heaved Chris by the shoulders, yanking him out so that Chris’s legs thudded heavily to the ground. He was missing a boot, his sock unnervingly white.

 

“Here,” the man gasped, puffing, waiting, Chris dangling like a puppet from his straining arms.

 

But Tom didn’t move, not at first. The man stared at him while Tom stared at Chris, his world slowly shrinking to a single pinpoint of light, the trembling pulse at Chris’s neck. Only then did his feet trip down the stairs, body lurching, an uneven gait as he found his balance and wound both his arms around Chris’s torso, pulling him from the man’s awkward hold, his neck flopping back like a broken doll’s.

 

The first sob wrenched from him, and it was so sudden and raw that the man startled and stumbled back, yanking his arms away. Chris’s weight dragged them to the ground, Tom’s knees crashing hard as he moved to palm his willow’s head, to brace it and hold him close. Mouth wide in a silent cry, his anger was fervently born that day, only weeks after they’d both turned sixteen, their mothers recently gone, Chris willing and eager to provide for Tom, for all they needed. His muscles were not fully grown, his arms and legs still skinny with youth. Skin so clear and smooth, not splotched with dry, sticky blood, marred with forming contusions. And still he was bigger than Tom, still he was stronger. But not strong enough to take on so many. He hadn’t stood a chance. And they’d struck at him hard, for belonging to nature in a way they never could, for daring to love his wisp.

 

Gritted teeth, they’d done this.

 

With a trembling hand, Tom smoothed it over Chris’s cheek, still round, newly stubbled, his fingers feeling at his soft temple. The fluttering lashes tore his heart in two and he breathed his name.

 

“He’s your...your c-cousin?”

 

The man was still there, apron clenched in both hands, gaping at the display of raw anguish he'd delivered to their front door. Here was the butcher, a kind man perhaps, but one of them regardless. His presence suddenly sickened Tom.

 

His lips curled into a snarl. “ _Get out.”_

 

The depth and the tear of it surprised even him, watching through watery eyes as the man spun on his heel and fled. A loud door slam and then the man had reversed and spun away quickly, tires spitting rocks and dirt, drafting them in a layer of fine dust as Tom, while he still could, embraced Chris carefully and dragged him into the house. Every thump of his bootless foot on the steps, sliding helplessly along the floor, fueled Tom’s rage, a maelstrom brewing in his belly. The bottom bedroom was where he placed Chris, draping him on the bed with shouted grunts, chest tight. Once lying flat, he searched him quickly and found all his money gone, several ribs cracked, his clavicle fractured, bleeding from his right ear, nose, and mouth. Deeper, probably, where he couldn't see.

 

His lovely long fingers were, thankfully, unbroken, but still wounded with deep gouges. Like he’d tried to defend himself. The thought nearly felled him, the walls giving a faint tremor as the surge burst over him.

 

Shaking from the rage, he’d stared down at Chris, at the heartbeat in his veins. Heat rose from him in steady waves, his body struggling to recover. Unable anymore to resist, he jerked around and staggered down the hall, palms itching, tears blurring his vision. Past the portraits of their mothers and all the rest of them, into the opening foyer, he pushed into the daylight and crashed through the clumps of azalea and moss, nearly falling down the stairs but catching himself on the rail. Breaths harsh now, voice ragged, he made it halfway down the drive before collapsing in a heap. He lay there for several moments, gasping, the sky scorching his eyes. But then bloodied blond hair flashed in his mind and he whimpered, the swell burgeoning to the surface once more.

 

He rose to both knees, his hands gravitating to the ground where he started to wring them, kneading the soil, digging deep, deeper, his tears burning and dripping, Chris’s blood staining him like wine. Fingers bleeding and nails cracked, he felt something balloon inside his heart and with every blink he saw him, saw him, saw him. It suddenly ruptured, expelled outward in a radiating arc, the ground beneath him rumbling and tilting and thundering deep below.

 

He woke hours, minutes, moments later, thrown back once more. Arms over his head, there was an immediate awareness that he wasn’t nearly so bloated with rage anymore. Inside him beat his heart steadily, with promise and calm. A knowing of what had been done. And he was glad. First he cleaned himself, washing soil and blood from his skin, and then he focused on Chris, who breathed with a whistle. Was his nose broken too?

 

It took him three days and all his power to cinch every broken bone, soak up the splotched blood and knit the torn veins. Chris’s color returned, his breathing evened out, he mumbled his name on the third evening. Exhausted, depleted, he leaned crookedly against the bed with both legs tucked under him on the floor and clung just barely to Chris’s wrist, gazing at his willow through heavy lids, his eyes finally surrendering to fatigue just as Chris’s had opened.

 

He couldn’t remember this, but Chris told him that he had sat up in time to catch Tom before he slumped over to the floor, hooking him into his arms and taking him to the tub in their bedroom upstairs. There they soaked and slept, Chris washing him with careful strokes of a soap Tom had made from fresh raspberries and goat’s milk, the suds popping prettily in the half light. Rousing, they’d moaned and turned in the water, kissing desperately, pushing and yielding, the water sloshing over the edge of the tub with their frantic movements.

 

And then they’d eaten a feast of eggs and chicken, fresh green salad with ripe tomato slices and sweet tea, saving the sweet potato pie for last.

 

Chris hadn’t ventured into town again until the following year, making do with the supplies they’d had left over from when their mothers were alive. Next time he left, he was bigger and stronger, not so easily deceived. It was then that Chris heard of the swarm of snakes that had infested the town shortly after his attack, the slimy creatures spilling from drain pipes and slithering through fresh sod in all the gardens, groups coiled threateningly in basements and even snapping up from toilet bowls. There were still whispers of the quake that splintered all the windows in town. But that was many months later, the plague distant but still sharp in Tom’s mind, as was the heinous reality of Chris’s pain. He wouldn’t suffer such devastation again. None would survive.

 

But that moment came anyway, when Chris had to leave once more. Tom’s fit had spiked lightning in the noon hour, torrents of rain flooding the swamps and raising the water levels so that a foot of it ran through the city center like the unleashed wrath of some minor deity.

 

Waiting until the whites of Tom’s eyes no longer rolled, until his feet and hands unclenched, until he fell limp and tranquil in his arms, Chris lay him on the bed with soaked tea leaves under his eyes and promised whispers to return before hurrying away, eager to be back home again, eager for Tom to be at peace.

 

So it was like now, he thought, slowly rolling to his side and leaning his hip on the floor, no longer able to hear the rumble of Chris’s truck. The next couple of hours would be terrible, alone on their land, the cicadas drowning out his thoughts, a blessing perhaps.

 

First, he would bathe. Every time he joined with Chris he was left sticky and sore, however second nature and lovely, he wouldn’t be able to stand feeling like this while so far from his willow. Hot water would cleanse and ease him and help him pass the time. He dozed in the water, soaking, fingers drifting over all the places Chris had laid claim. But he finally dragged himself out, drying his body with a thin cotton towel and dressing in a long shirt with a blue collar. Next was the garden, watering and weeding as the sun rose to its zenith. Last was a trip into the swamp for more brush and nettles, flowers and the charred bits of driftwood he could grind into a paste that worked best for his darker pieces. The animals didn’t bother him; most avoided him in fact. He would go unbothered through the thickest of it, his trip quicker than with Chris, who usually attracted the animals.

 

Finally, standing at the worktable in the shade of their porch, staring at the pots and willing himself to grind the paints into a smooth whip, he heard the truck at the front gate. Dropping the palette, he strode across the wide planks and around the house, his bare feet silent.

 

Chris was parking the truck and climbing out, his face splitting into a searing grin when he spotted Tom.

 

“Thank the saints,” he murmured, eyes falling shut, his relief leaning him heavily against one of the columns.

 

“Yes, your saints and your deities,” Chris said, smiling. He ground the toe of his boot into the dirt. “And your earth.”

 

“They, and she, are yours too, my willow,” he sighed, meeting Chris at the foot of the stairs, stopping on the last one and winding his arms around his neck.

 

“They, and you, protect me. Now, my kiss.”

 

They touched lips firmly and with muted laughs, Chris smacked Tom’s bottom, hoisting him in the air and toward the truck. His hand wandered over a naked thigh.

 

“I love when your legs are bare, and –.” He made a surprised sound when he reached under the hem of Tom’s long shirt and found more than his legs bare. “My lovely wisp, you tempt me.”

 

With a naughty spark in his eyes, Tom leaned in to smell the sweat at Chris’s neck and promised him love later.

 

Together they brought in the bags of supplies Chris had procured – new brushes and long sheets of canvas to cut and size onto wooden frames. Acrylic and thinner for their colors, charcoal and sketching paper. There were new cotton garments and bolts of other kinds of material – Tom would make new clothes for them and use the extra material to patch worn drapes and blankets and tablecloths. Milk and several cuts of meat. Pastries and fruit and vegetables they hadn’t grown on their own.

 

“The butcher extends his greetings to you,” Chris said, carrying more things inside. Tom nearly scoffed, but kept his face clear.

 

“He’s afraid of me.”

 

Brush of nose to his cheek. “They all are,” Chris whispered, and Tom nodded, appeased. He preferred it that way, if it meant they were safe. They knew better than to cross him again.

 

“I opened a line of credit with the butcher, and his son.”

 

“The baker,” Tom sneered, however perfectly willing to eat the delicious sweet cakes he made and always gave to Chris at a discount. But then he frowned. “What is credit? What does that mean?”

 

“I paid him in advance for future trips. Whenever I need to acquire meat or bread, they will simply give it to me.”

 

“Why? We have the money anyway. What is the purpose?”

 

Chris shrugged, hauling the jugs of milk to the ancient refrigerator. “I won’t have to carry as much money on me that way. Besides, the butcher and his son are always very kind to me when I visit. I trust them with this.”

 

This made Tom pause, realizing that Chris might still be nervous about entering town on his own, even after all these years. He hid it so well. Swallowing, he placed the new peaches and oranges in a green ceramic bowl. “Then I agree. This was very wise of you.”

 

Chris smiled and pressed his forehead to Tom’s shoulder, a gentle butting they’d done since they were children. “For once you were not a hundred paces ahead of me.”

 

Tom said, rather seriously, “I would never stray so far from you.”

 

“Thank the saints,” Chris whispered.

 

Groceries put away and shelves restocked, they left the kitchen and walked onto the porch, Tom carrying a tray of sliced peaches, Chris a jar of fresh cinnamon tea. The sun began its descent and lit the lake on fire, the swans floating dazedly in the heat. The porch swing whined under their weight but would hold, as all things this deep in the sticks would. The house would stand for another two hundred years, the lake, the swamp, the dripping woods enclosing them in. The knowing gaze of their relatives. Eventually, Chris would paint a portrait of Tom, and Tom of Chris, and they would hang them together somewhere, and the line would be complete, finished.

 

But they were very young, not yet thirty, and their time to depart wouldn’t come for many decades still.

 

Pushing gently with his long legs, Chris kept them swinging, Tom curled up beside him nibbling on a peach.

 

The table in the dark corner of the porch held numerous earthenware basins and wooden pots, thin pieces of cloth tied around the lids to keep the paint wet.

 

“You didn’t mix any while I was gone?”

 

Tom stayed quiet for a moment, lifting a piece of peach and slowly sliding it between Chris’s lips, their eyes meeting. He could never mix paints while Chris was on errand in town, the memory of what had happened, what could happen again, was too strong, too sharp.

 

“Not since then,” Chris whispered, twisting into Tom’s mind and knowing, for Tom wasn’t the only one with a little something extra in his blood. It was how, as children, they grew in a secret language of silence and loaded looks, both aware and willing.

 

Not wishing to be embittered by the thought of Chris’s attack, Tom swallowed down the sticky sweet clump and nuzzled his face into the crook of Chris’s neck. “You promised me something. A gift.”

 

“Oh, did I?” Chris said, playing coy. “I don’t recall.”

 

“You did. And I want it now. I demand it.” The smile in his voice pulled the smile to Chris’s face and they laughed together, quietly and close, arms wrapping around one another.

 

“Did you see the brown paper bag among the other packages the butcher gave me?”

 

“Hmm. Briefly.”

 

“Your surprise is in there. I’ve placed it in the fridge.”

 

“Whatever is it.”

 

Chris leaned close and lifted his brows, the sun catching the white blond of all those lashes. “Your heart’s desire.”

 

Tom stilled, eyes going wide. “No. You didn’t!”

 

The lines at his eyes crinkled as Chris grinned and said in that exceptionally deep voice of his, “I did.”

 

Thrusting the plate of peach slices at him, Tom scrambled off the swing and raced into the house, his feet thudding through the foyer and living room, through two high archways and a corridor before sliding into the kitchen and yanking open the metal handle. There sat the paper bag, moisture soaking the bottom and darkening the brown to nearly black. His heart thudded in glee. He took the bag out carefully and set it on the counter, knowing already what it would be.

 

Pigs’ bladders were hard to come by, as they didn’t own pigs and the farmers that did were ridiculous about thieves in the night. Tom hadn’t been able to acquire one in some years, rumors marking him with extra suspicion, his whereabouts when not on their land always catalogued, when he was seen that is, when he was not blended in with the shifting beams of moonlight. And he never ventured out regardless; it was Chris’s burden to bear. And now this gift, how sweet.

 

Inside were two perfectly round pale pink bladders, pristine and smooth. He may have sighed.

 

“You like them?”

 

Chris was leaning at the doorway, pleased with himself.

 

“However did you get them?”

 

Chris shrugged. “I only asked.”

 

Tom snapped his head up. “And he just gave them to you?”

 

“On credit.”

 

Tom’s eyes fell, mumbling.

 

Soft footfalls came near, and then Chris was running a hand down his back, settling on the soft rise of his rump.

 

“But what did you tell him. That you needed them for? He didn’t look at you…bizarrely?”

 

“No, my wisp. I simply told him the truth. That you use them as filters for paint. They hold the paint in the purest form. That it’s how it was done for hundreds of years, and it's the way you like it the most.” He gave another small shrug. “We are painters, after all.”

 

Tom cast him a worried gaze, his face heavy and full. “And he believed you?”

 

Ice blue eyes met his, softened by love and something that ran deeper than family. “Yes, I think he did.”

 

Taking a deep breath, Tom finally nodded and his grip on the countertop loosened.

 

“You don’t have to worry, wisp. The butcher and his son are friendly. The grocer’s wife bid me a good morning. And a little girl waved at me from the schoolyard. You needn’t fear what happened before. I truly don’t think it will happen again. I’m stronger and smarter than I was at sixteen. And they wouldn’t dare cross you, my sweet witch.”

 

Tom’s smile was slow and wide, the green flash in his eyes private and quick, simmered down to his pale blue once more. He lifted his chin and Chris met him in a slow kiss, his hand wandering lower still to cup his bottom.

 

“Shall we paint?” Chris said, his breath ghosting over Tom’s ear.

 

“Yes, but first, we mix.”

 

Another quick kiss, and they gathered the bladders and the new pigments, going outside to the porch and the cooler, dark interior in the far corner where their working table sat, earthen pots and wooden bowls empty and waiting.

 

Inside, the paintings above the fireplace sighed - soft and indistinct - in their sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading :)


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